


Bad Days and Good

by Yiichi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Derek and Stiles are making eyes at each other, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Schmoop, Self-Denial, So much angst, Unrequited Love, poor babby Isaac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:43:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yiichi/pseuds/Yiichi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days for Isaac are normal. Good, even.</p><p>And then. Then there are the bad days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Days and Good

**Author's Note:**

> This was pretty damn tough to write. It took a lot out of me. I'm so sorry, Isaac, you sweet babby.
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://yijitumbles.tumblr.com/) is here!

There are some days that are good. The air in the house seems lighter in those days. His father is in a good mood, and it shows. The conversation between them, when it happens over the dinner table or in the morning between grabbing a slice of dry toast and bolting out the door for school, is so normal it’s almost pleasant. Once in a while, they even have a laugh together, share a joke or an amusing observation that makes Isaac think that maybe, just maybe, they’re a normal family. It’s those days that are the most dangerous to him, because that’s when he gets his hopes up that things are getting better.

Most days are spent with indifference, bordering on disregard. Those are his safe days, because if he’s lucky, he can bluff his way through dinner, slink down hallways and around corners like a wary feline. They eat at the small table in the kitchen in total silence. Isaac has perfected walking on eggshells, because even the clink of the dishes in the sink as he soaps them is quiet enough to be considered non-existent. They’re the days that are most taxing to him, because every sense is heightened, every atom in his body is tensed and poised for flight. Whatever he does, he does it with utmost care, lest he somehow accidentally push past a line, press a button wrong and unleash the terror in his father. He collapses into bed at night exhausted, staring at the ceiling of his room and feeling almost sick with relief that the lights in the other room have switched off, and the day is over.

And then. Then there are the bad days.

Isaac understands that sometimes he causes them. Despite his caution, he’s often forgetful, or has so many things on his mind that he leaves one overlooked. Bringing in the dry laundry and leaving it in the basket while he remembers that he’s forgotten to vacuum the kitchen, which will lead him onto a dozen other chores, and in the end there are wrinkles in the shirts because they weren’t hung up straight away, just left in the basket on the floor of the laundry. Setting an alarm for seven in the morning on a Saturday to wake up and wash the sheets, only to be woken at half past six by the screams detailing his laziness. Letting the pasta sauce sit for too long on the stove while he fussed around in the kitchen, the acrid smell of burnt tomato and judgement heavy as fog in the air between them during dinner.

Sometimes (and these, he thinks to himself, are the worst times), though, the bad days just come without warning. They catch him by surprise, like the knuckles clipping the underside of his jaw, because they start off as normal days, maybe even good days. His body and mind’s guards are down, he hasn’t tensed his body for response, hasn’t schooled the features of his face into subservient silence. They’re the type of days that leave him feeling dizzy, disoriented and wishing, just wishing, that he hadn’t done something as stupid as meet his father’s eyes, or forgotten to take out the trash that morning.

Isaac considers himself ridiculously lucky if he gets away with a torrent of verbal insults. He’s begun classifying the days into smaller subsets – they’re the ‘best of the bad’ days, because while words hurt, they don’t bruise as much as solid things. He usually feels better when, finding a moment alone at school behind the bleachers, or in the bathrooms during class, or at home in the middle of the night, he can curl up into himself. He doesn’t cry, not then. He just holds onto his arms, or his knees, and breathes. In, out, in, out. Slowly, and deeply, dragging air into his body and calming his jittery extremities, his nerves, shot to pieces. He has to hold on to himself, because, psychologically speaking, the days where his dad just shouts at him are fucking mind torture. The past gets rehashed, thrown around and back in his face (every single thing he’s ever done wrong, every instance where he was promised they’d just forget it, forget it, but here it comes again and again and again) and hours later, he’s clapped on the shoulder or given a friendly smile or a pat on the cheek like nothing was wrong, nothing had happened. An icy hand wraps its jagged fingers inside of Isaac’s chest and _squeezes_ , and he feels like he’ll never be warm again. Another layer is added to the walls between himself and outside, cold and erected by his own volition, because if his own father is capable of so much hurt, how much worse could the world be?

There are many times that his luck, or what little he has of it, runs out entirely. Things get thrown at him, and that’s the most dangerous part of it all, because he can’t control where a pot sails, or a shard of broken crockery lands. He’s gotten surprisingly numb and picking broken bits that aren’t part of him out of his skin in the bathroom at night.

When his father lays hands on him, he feels like he can’t breathe. He hates it, he hates everything (his shitty life his weak body his father _himself himself himself_ ) and he hates the pain, but it’s better than getting a glass thrown at him again. His dad slaps with a calloused, open hand, punches without grace, but he can control this situation a little better. He knows that, if he takes it for long enough( _‘it’s just like lancing a boil, you need to get the venom out for things to go back to normal’_ , he thinks), it’ll turn good again. It’s come down to a fine art, now, timing his whimpers and chokes just right to give his father enough satisfaction with what he’s done. Every so often it’s just a slap across the face. More often than not, it goes on for hours.

On these days, Isaac sleeps at school during lunch, during his free period, any time he can afford to that won’t affect his grades. He doesn’t sleep the bad nights, body tensed and coiled like a too-tight spring, hoping against hope the older man won’t wake up and feel like round two. On these days, he waits diligently until his father’s bedroom goes dark, the whole house goes quiet. And then, just to be on the safe side, he waits a couple more hours to make sure the peace won’t be broken, before he lets himself break. But despite the tears that run down his face and wet his sheets and hands and make his chest heave (hurt around the icy fist gripping his heart) he’s cautiously quiet. Another skill perfected, silent agony.

He’s turned.

Isaac’s father is dead. After the kanima, he’s little more than a car seat of chili. He’s arrested, on the run, and somehow, things go back to normal. Or as normal as they can get, anyway, now that the charges have been dropped. He goes to school, washes his laundry, cooks for himself. And yet, despite knowing he’s alone in the house, despite seeing the casket lowered into the cold, bitter ground, he moves cautiously around the rooms when he’s not at the den. But he doesn’t think about the past, the man that used to hurt him. He’s thrown out all the photos, the albums, anything that would remind him of his father, as if remembering him could bring back his vengeful ghost, and the nightmare would start all over again. He still has bad days, though there’s a lot less violence, and the screaming is all in his head.

Something changes.

It doesn’t happen overnight, not by a long shot. But there’s a pack happening now. There are people he spends time around – Derek, Erica, Boyd. The talkative Sheriff’s kid.

They argue, and practice combat together, and get into stupid shit. They fight creatures that shouldn’t be real, and hunters, and they get hurt and then regroup and comfort each other. It’s the closest thing Isaac has ever had to a family (as dysfunctional as they can get), even though Isaac had a proper family before. It’s different and unnerving, and the block of ice in his chest slowly starts to thaw, the tight fist over his heart loosens. Not a lot, but a fraction, and a fraction is just enough for him to start seeing.

And then there’s Scott.

Between his Alpha’s frustrated growling, Erica’s smart mouth and Boyd’s unsettling quietness, Isaac finds himself in a situation he’s never been in. His new werewolf senses, much sharper and stronger than his previous, puny human ones, can smell truth much better. He can smell the obstinate, utterly refuted attraction between the Alpha and Stilinski, the soundless trust and calm co-dependency of Boyd and Erica’s ‘definitely not a relationship but actually is’.

And he can smell the love on Scott.

Everybody and their grandmother knows that Scott McCall is irrefutably, undeniably in love with Allison Argent. Kind of hard to miss, when they’re constantly reminded of how much they’re into each other, and how many times Scott’s barely scraped himself out of the Argent house with his pelt intact. Kind of difficult to do, considering that he’s boning the daughter of one of the toughest Hunters they know. It doesn’t stop Scott from it, though, and the rest of the pack is either impressed at his obstinate perseverance, or amused by his stupid mulishness that (more often than not) they have to bail him out of.

At first, Isaac thought he was jealous of Scott. He had a pretty cool mom, his girlfriend was hot and totally into him, and he was Derek’s shiny new addition to the pack. Scott had everything going for him, and still does. Well, when he doesn’t mope about after he and Allison go through the repeated cycle of break up/make up/break up some more. And maybe it’s because Scott’s scent is nicer than everybody else’s, easier on his nose and imbued with the smell of grass, his antiperspirant and soap, and a woody, leafy scent of outdoors, and the underlying smell that is just Scott. It makes it so hard to look at him most days, because he doesn’t know if he’ll lash out and strike him, or just collapse at his feet, begging and pleading, to let him taste that happiness for once.

It’s as they’re running as pack outdoors one night, training under Derek’s watchful eye, that the realization hits him like a bolt of lightning.

He’s not jealous of Scott.

He’s jealous of Allison.

The enormity of this sudden comprehension hits him like a ton of bricks (Derek’s body when he slams into him during practice would be a more fitting analogy). It drives the air from his lungs in a sudden lurch, and he’s tripping over his feet, landing face-first on the forest floor, half-buried under dead leaves and twigs. He hears the howl of laughter from Erica as the rest of the pack stops, feels his face flush with embarrassment as someone above him asks “Are you okay?” (he doesn’t even recognize the voice over the rush of blood in his ears). The hand that takes his arm and pulls him to his feet belongs to Scott, as did the question, and Isaac can’t help but turn his eyes away.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, brushing leaves off his arms and keeping his eyes turned away. His chest feels tight, but it’s not that uncomfortable, cold tight that kept him awake at night. It’s strange and different, and it scares the shit out of him and thrills him to pieces all at once. He doesn’t meet anybody’s eye for the remainder of the run, just puts his all into keeping up with Derek, and by the time they’re back at the den he’s exhausted. There’s a meagre attempt at conversation, but it’s Friday night and they’ve all been running for too long, and it’s time to wind down.

“Dude, you _promised_.”

Scott’s voice is irritated as he presses his finger accusingly into the middle of Stiles’ chest. The human rolls his eyes and flicks the offending hand away.

“Like you’ve never, ever, ever broken a video game night or a promise and ditched me for Allison before,” he retorts, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. Isaac can’t help but overhear the conversation, since, you know, their living quarters aren’t that big, and everyone’s milling around anyway. His eyes flick away from the duo to find Erica and Boys quietly holding hands and looking at each other in a very ‘no relationship here but _whoops, yes, there is, wonder how that got there?_ ’ way. All of a sudden, the corrugated iron wall of the hideout seems infinitely interesting.

“But we always have Friday night video game night,” Scott practically whines back.

“No, we always have Friday Night video game night when Allison _dumps you_.” Stiles shoots back, and even from here Isaac feels Scott’s twitch. Ouch. The truth seems to have hit too close to home. “Look, dude,” Stilinski continues, running a hand through his buzz-cut, “I know you’re down in the dumps ‘cuz you guys are off again, but you gotta give me some time to do things I want to do too.”

“So what’re you doing tonight then?”

“Oh… nothing that should concern you,” Stiles tapers off, and Isaac finds himself suddenly very aware that Derek’s left, and the two of them had been making furious eyes at each other all evening. Not so much furious as… furiously something? He’s still making a wide-eyed ‘I have seen the truth, and that truth scares me’ face when Stiles pats his best friend on the shoulder and wishes him a good weekend (“I’ll see you Sunday for pizza night”) and leaves, probably to confront their Alpha and finally sort out their ‘will-they-won’t-they’ conundrum. He was sure that there’d be something broken wherever they planned to have their _thing_ at, that was for sure. And the rest he didn’t want to know, definitely, nope.

Scott’s shoulders sagged, and he honest to god looked like someone had stolen his puppy as he kicked the dirt (who did that these days, outside of romcoms, seriously?) and started shuffling back.

“I’ll play.”

Isaac hadn’t even known he’d spoken until Scott had turned around, given him an incredulous look. He stuck his own hands into the pockets of his hoodie, slouching against the doorframe of the abandoned tram. “I mean. I haven’t played video games in a few years, but if you’re looking for someone to play with, yeah, I’ll play.” What the hell, he hadn't even been any good at games even when he had played them, why was he offering? And Scott’s eyebrows were climbing higher and higher, like any moment they could disappear under that mop of hair.

“You… Wanna play with me?” he asked, his words halting, measured.

“I haven’t got anything better to do with my night,” Isaac replied, emphasizing with a shrug of one shoulder and wondering why his chest kept feeling tighter. If he liked the guy, this should be easy, right?

“I thought you didn’t like me,” came the reply, more curious than accusing. Isaac shrugged again, his lips creasing into a confused tilt.

“Never said I didn’t.”

The silence that stretched between them went on for a lot longer than he would have liked. His palms felt sweaty in the pockets of his hoodie, and he wondered if Scott could sense his nervousness, despite his werewolf Zen calming his heartbeat and schooling his features into impassiveness. When Scott finally broke the quietness, he did it with a grin that made Isaac’s stomach flip and his glassy insides tremble.

“Come on. My mom’s on the night shift, so we can order takeout and have way too much cola.”

And just like that, he was having good days again.


End file.
